She wished to. And I will not say I didn't consider it. But Bela is best savored, and fucking her against an alley wall wouldn't let me take her apart inch by inch.
[His voice dips a little lower. Not on purpose, not the way he does sometimes when he wants to menace people, but naturally.]
We began in the hallway. She was particularly good at removing my armor; she was adept, too, in getting me exactly how she wanted me. By the time I had regained my senses she'd had my sword off, my breastplate . . . not my gauntlets, though. They still had blood on them— she still had blood on her— and she enjoyed how sharp they were. She liked to feel them digging into her skin— not quite slicing her to ribbons, but pinpricks of pain. The tip of one claw dragging over her throat . . . she enjoyed the danger of it, I think. The threat of knowing I could slice her throat open, and, further, had the nerve to do so.
That the only thing standing between her and that was my goodwill and affection for her . . . she enjoyed living dangerously like that.
[That, and she was not nearly so helpless. If he had gone dark, he knows for a fact she would have snapped his neck long before he could truly hurt her. A thought occurs to him, and he adds:]
You might enjoy such a thing, yourself. You complain about them often enough, but I think you would like it if I had you at my mercy like that. Your throat bared and all of you wondering if I would decide to exert just a little pressure and draw blood . . .
Or is it that you'd only enjoy it if I was at your mercy?
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She wished to. And I will not say I didn't consider it. But Bela is best savored, and fucking her against an alley wall wouldn't let me take her apart inch by inch.
[His voice dips a little lower. Not on purpose, not the way he does sometimes when he wants to menace people, but naturally.]
We began in the hallway. She was particularly good at removing my armor; she was adept, too, in getting me exactly how she wanted me. By the time I had regained my senses she'd had my sword off, my breastplate . . . not my gauntlets, though. They still had blood on them— she still had blood on her— and she enjoyed how sharp they were. She liked to feel them digging into her skin— not quite slicing her to ribbons, but pinpricks of pain. The tip of one claw dragging over her throat . . . she enjoyed the danger of it, I think. The threat of knowing I could slice her throat open, and, further, had the nerve to do so.
That the only thing standing between her and that was my goodwill and affection for her . . . she enjoyed living dangerously like that.
[That, and she was not nearly so helpless. If he had gone dark, he knows for a fact she would have snapped his neck long before he could truly hurt her. A thought occurs to him, and he adds:]
You might enjoy such a thing, yourself. You complain about them often enough, but I think you would like it if I had you at my mercy like that. Your throat bared and all of you wondering if I would decide to exert just a little pressure and draw blood . . .
Or is it that you'd only enjoy it if I was at your mercy?